


Enigma

by Kaikoura



Series: Terrible Ride [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Except the comfort hasn't come yet lmao whoops, Hurt/Comfort, I have no idea what tags to even add to this without spoiling the plot, I'm so sorry 2.0, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Instability / Emotional instability, Pining, Will add tags in the future, brainwashed!Reaper, past reaper76
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:39:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7829008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaikoura/pseuds/Kaikoura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d known about his existence, his identity, had wrought herself with guilt for years about the hand she played in Gabriel’s current condition. But she never expected to see him, unmasked and unarmed, face twisted in misery and guilt and pain, standing in front of her in the middle of a Watchpoint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Survivor's Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> [Enigma is a direct continuation to Terrible Ride, and will not make any sense without reading that fic first!  
> Terrible Ride on it's own may be seen as a standalone fic if desired, however. Enjoy!]
> 
> * * *
> 
> ## enigma
> 
>  _/iˈniɡmə/ - noun_  
>  1\. a puzzling or inexplicable occurrence or situation:  
> 2\. a person of puzzling or contradictory character:  
> 3\. a saying, question, picture, etc., containing a hidden meaning; riddle.

“G-Gabriel? _Gabe_?”  
  
Mercy lowers her pistol with slow, unsteady hands as she stares into the face the last person she ever expected to see again.

 

* * *

 

_“Dr. Ziegler. Two men are approaching your station, currently. One appears to be carrying the other, and they both are unarmed.”_

When Athena had stolen her attention away, with a shrill beep and a brief description of the warning in her cool, collected, metallic voice, she’d admittedly been surprised. Both at the unexpected visitors, and the fact that Athena had chosen her to warn instead of… literally anyone else at the Watchpoint. Glancing at the clock, she notes the time. 3:37 am. The simple research and unhurried studies that she always saved for the quietness of the base at night would have to wait.

She shuts her small netbook shut with a confused glance at the intercom. 

“Noted, thank you.” She takes a moment before considering her words, something doesn’t seem right here. This sounded more like a stray security breach than something the doctor should be involved in, but she figured the AI must have had her motives for contacting her first. “You said they’re approaching the medical building specifically? Do you think it’s safe for me to go and see what they want, then?”

The soft rhythmical beeping of Athena processing information lilts from the intercom speakers for a moment.  _“Again, I am not detecting any weapons. The one holding the other does seem highly distressed, however. I am also detecting that the one being carried may be… injured. They may be in need of medical assistance, and seem to be seeking out the Medical bay directly.”_

The apparent hesitation in Athena’s voice causes a slight twinge of worry, but she pushes it aside. Regardless, she didn't want to confront the visitors while herself unarmed. She walks to a nearby table and picks up her pistol, quickly checking it over in hand before turning back to the intercom, querying the artificial woman again.

“Do you have any sort of read on their identities?”

There’s a small delay before she hears the AI processing again. Angela wonders if she’d already tried once before contacting her.

 _“…No. Not any sort of definitive conclusion.”_ The emphasis on ‘definitive’ strikes the doctor as out of place again. If she knew any better she’d say the robot sounded almost perplexed.

Angela nods, turning to punch the code in to open the doors before readying her pistol and stepping out into the cold night air, ignoring the sinking feeling in her gut screaming at her like a premonition.

 

* * *

 

Angela’s pistol is aimed harmlessly at the ground, but her fingers are nothing but tense, gripping the sides of it like it might suddenly jump from her hands. She’s aware that the small sidearm would do next to nothing against the man in front of her, regardless of if he was armed or not, but she deludes herself into feeling at least some comfort from the gun.

She’d known about his existence, his identity, had wrought herself with guilt for years about the hand she played in Gabriel’s current condition. But she never expected to see him, unmasked and unarmed, face twisted in misery and guilt and pain, standing in front of her in the middle of a Watchpoint. 

He looks like hell. Looks like he's _been_ through hell.

Although his hood is down, the signature jacket of the Reaper is still on him, billowing behind him like a tattered cape, its ends dissolving into inky smoke only to be taken away by the wind. Now that she notices, Gabriel himself appears to be suffering much the same fate. Smoke is billowing off of him in random places, and nearly half of his body seems almost blurry, like the living embodiment of a picture taken during a streak of rapid motion. Athena must have been struggling to identify them both through the haze of Reaper's smoke. She vaguely feels like this visage isn't intentional; more the product of injury or exhaustion than the need to look intimidating. The tired despair in his silent gaze seems to confirm her assumptions. 

Realizing she's spent a good amount of time just gawking at him, Angela forces her gaze away to look over the man in his arms and immediately feels the air rush out of her lungs. Silver hair. Red gloves. A flash of patriotic colors on a tacky motorcycle jacket. Swathes of deep crimson covering sections of the design that she starkly remembers being white and blue.

No visor.

Eyes closed. Not conscious.

Angela doesn’t even have to think before she’s barking orders into the com at her ear, alerting the other staff within her medical jurisdiction and rapidly ushering the two men inside and towards the emergency bay. She’s likely woken up half of the base within the last few seconds. Lights slam themselves on throughout various parts of the building as the Watchpoint rises from its slumber, moving into a state of frenzied emergency.

As they wind their way through the halls, Gabriel says nothing, only hugs Jack closer. Smokey wisps of himself are flowing up and around him, almost protectively, as Gabriel cradles him. Angela figures she should be worried about willingly allowing the enemy in the Watchpoint like this, but Reaper's body language seems to speak for itself. Not to mention the act of bringing their own agent here for medical assistance. She wonders for a moment what happened, what sort of injury has Jack sustained? Well, she'd be able to find out in a moment, in the surgery room.

Now nearing the heart of the Medical bay, assistants are rushing out to great them. Hands pry at Jack, urging Gabriel to release him so he can be placed on the hurriedly brought-out gurney. Gabriel seems to be in another place, eyes unfocused and expression still a dull mix of misery and guilt, and he has to be almost forced to let the man go. Quickly they settle the battered soldier onto the stretcher, and Gabriel stands off to the side, quiet and withdrawn as he watches the group wheel him into the back room, a flurry of medical jargon and frantic movement.

He watches with a sense of disembodiment as an assistant places two fingers on Jack’s neck, searching for a pulse.

When the nurse looks back to Angela, slowly shaking her head in a resigned confirmation of what they all feared, Gabriel is suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation of pure emptiness. 

He blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short opening chapter for the new fic! The next chapter will be up tomorrow at some point, as it's already mostly done, but I felt like this was a more natural resting point to end it on for now.
> 
> Unbeta'd this time so I apologize if there's errors! This will likely recieve a bit of a face-lift tomorrow, when I can reread it a bit better.
> 
> I don't really have much of the story planned out besides the next 4-5 chapters, but I'm not entirely sure how long I wanna keep this going. We'll just see how it goes! For now with just this chapter and the next, it may seem very similar to the tropes that I've seen on a few fics already, but I promise it has a very different premise in the long run!
> 
> I feel bad for copying the whole "quick hook paragraph, flashback, flashforward" format from the last fic, it wasn't intentional lol! It just seemed to suit the urgent mood with this a little better than making it just a flat timeline.
> 
> Also I just wanted to say THANK YOU GUYS! For giving my very first fanfic such a good reception that I wanted to continue it, it really means a lot guys. Thank you!


	2. Timing is Everything

Gabriel wakes with a jolt, suddenly at full attention, but still feeling the steady pull of physical exhaustion like a vice around his frame. Rubbing his face, he looks around the room, assessing his current situation. White walls. White ceiling. White hospital bed. Dull lights. The metallic, chemical smell of a doctor's office. He looked down at the off-white hospital gown covering his upper half, glad that at least they left his pants on. It looks like they just wanted access to his arm for the IV drip, though they haven't had time to check him for injuries.

Confusion fills his mind for a moment. Where the hell was he? He sighs, weary and tired, pinching the bridge of his nose with his hands as he attempts to ignore the resounding pain in his skull. God, he felt like he got hit by a semi-truck. Multiple semi-trucks. Something in the back of his mind screams that he deserves it.

He quickly takes a moment to review what led him here. He remembers the watchpoint, the medical bay, Mercy-

_Jack._

He feels his throat constrict.

_No pulse._

Gabriel throws himself off the bed, bolting for the door. He hazily feels the sensation of an IV pulling uncomfortably in his arm, and the noisy clatter of the IV pole jolting after him. He flings open the door to his room like it's personally the cause for his current situation, and stops dead in his tracks. He looks down at the rifle muzzle pointed inches away from his face.

He looks down the sights of the weapon, into a face that he vaguely remembers. Half of it he chalks up to the brainwashing and memory reconditioning he endured, but the face in front of him is still young and radiant. She must've been a kid-

"Don't. Move." She hefts the gun a little closer, gripping it tightly. Her voice is just as icy as her gaze. Gabriel notes the simple Overwatch fatigues, and the small tattoo under her left eye. Wait. Putting his hands up in a display of peace, he's painfully aware of the IV digging uncomfortably in his skin. "...Fareeha?" he questions, unsure of the whole situation. The grip on her rifle tightens. "What do you need, Reaper?" She spits out the name between her teeth like venom. Gabriel flinches at the mention of a name he feels no attachment too.

Gabriel shakes his head, mentally snapping back to the current situation. He needs to know what happened. He _needs_ \- "Jack. Where's Jack? Mercy? I-" He hates how small his voice sounds, hates how he can hear it crack with emotion. _No pulse._ He takes a deep, slightly shuddering breath, and tries again. "...I need to know what happened. If he's... okay." The hopefulness in his voice makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. The back of his mind screams at him that he already _knows_ what happened. Most of his memory of the night is starting to come back to him, now. He's not sure if he can take it.

Fareeha's hand is already on her com, chattering quietly with someone, her gaze and gun never wavering. He notes a moment where she stops talking, simply listening to the person on the com, and her eyes become filled with more pain. Were they pained begin with? He can't really hear much of the conversation over the blood rushing in his ears. _No pulse. No pulse._ He wavers slightly as the light-headedness returns, and he braces his arm against the door frame. Fareeha gives him a look that might almost be called concern. _No pulse. Your fault._

In his daze, he vaguely registers her telling him to go back into the room, to wait. Dr. Ziegler would be out in a few minutes.

He snaps. 

"Where the  _fuck_  is Jack?" he roars, slamming his fist against the door frame. Smoke begins to lightly roll off of his frame. He ignores the ringing in his ears. Fareeha looks unfazed for the most part, if not even colder towards him. Her eyes narrow. "I said Dr. Ziegler will be out in a moment. She'll explai-" Gabriel cuts her off with an accusatory glare, pointing at her and stepping up to press his chest against the muzzle of her rifle. "I didn't fucking ask about Mercy," he bites out, inky black smoke now pooling around his feet. "I asked about Jack. I swear to god, if somebody doesn't tell me what the hell is going on-"

"Gabriel." He immediately stiffens, whipping his head around to find the source of the voice. Angela looks exhausted, her stark white medical gown covered in blotches of dried blood.

Gabriel immediately stalks towards her, stopping for a moment at the sensation of the IV pole ramming into the wall in it's effort to follow him. He rips the IV out of his arm, tossing it to the ground and ignoring the small rivulets of blood growing from it's abused insertion point. When he looks up, Angela is already in front of him, tugging him back towards the room. "Fareeha, please, give us a moment. You are relieved for now."

She opens her mouth to protest, but Angela squares her with a knowing look. The woman gives her a quick salute before walking off down one of the many halls.

Once inside the room, the doctor turns to shut the door behind them, giving them privacy. All of his anger has evaporated, replaced by a painful feeling in his chest that he struggles to ignore. He sits on the edge of the bed, waiting. She doesn't turn to face him. There's a moment of strained silence. They both speak at the same time.

"Please-"

"What happened?"

Gabriel stalls for a moment, not expecting the question. Angela takes the moment to turn on him, eyes full of fire and heartache. "What. Happened." she bites out again, hands balling into fists at her sides in an effort to contain her anger from boiling over. Gabriel just stares, unsure of where to even begin. She folds her arms across her chest, looking at the ground, and her body language flickers halfway between unbridled anger and uncertainty. When she looks back up, she seems to have composed herself a little more, if only barely. "Jack-" Her voice cracks. "Is currently sitting on my operation table, with a fucking _hole_ in his back the size of his head!" her voice rises in volume until she's practically shouting, by the end. Gabriel can't help but flinch slightly at the description. Angela continues. "So could you please tell me, what the hell happened?"

He looks down. He can't. He has no idea how to even begin to explain what happened. "I- didn't. I didn't mean-" he attempts, struggling to find the words through the wave of emotions clamping down on his throat. 

"Well, it's clearly a shotgun injury from all the fucking buckshot we pried out."

Gabriel visibly flinches this time, cradling his head in his hands in a meager attempt to cope. Angela seems to have found her solace in being as blunt as possible with the situation. She still hasn't answered the obvious question though, and Gabriel can't meet her eyes, opting to instead muffle the question behind his tired hands. "Is... is he...?"

Angela bristles at the question. "Of course he's fucking dead! You fucking _killed him_!" she yells, her emotions finally boiling over. "Isn't this what you wanted? Well you finally got it! Jack Morrison is dead, congratulations!" She slumps into one of the nearby chairs, allowing her exhaustion to flow over her for a moment. Repeated surgeries and revival attempts, and still she could do nothing for her dead friend on the table. She somewhat feels like part of her aggression towards Reaper is a redirection of her own self-loathing, though, for failing to resuscitate Jack. It's not entirely unfounded though, he was the one who wanted Jack dead, after all. Right?

She takes a moment to observe him, without the haze of her own grief clouding her judgement. He still has his head in his hands, but he's trembling violently. Although muffled, she can hear the distinct sounds of crying. Angela suddenly feels a jolt of regret run through her, for being so blunt. None of this was adding up. This... wasn't Reaper. Couldn't be. This wasn't the terrifying mercenary who threw himself at their agents in every battle with psychopathic glee. This wasn't the horrifying creature she helped make, born of unhinged rage and permanently shrouded in obsidian smoke.

This was Gabriel Reyes.

The realization is sudden, but immediately the entire situation makes sense. There was no telling when Gabriel had become Reaper, and vice versa, but without a doubt, the man here tonight had not wanted Jack Morrison dead. She feels even worse for throwing such stinging accusations at him now. Gabriel was clearly already struggling with enough guilt as it was. 

Before she can decide how best to comfort the sudden enemy-turned-friend, Gabriel is already straightening up, attempting to compose himself as best as he can for a man who was sobbing uncontrollably into his hands only moments ago. He coughs into his hand awkwardly, still not facing the doctor, looking down at her coat instead, at the blood stains. Jack's blood. "How... how long has he been... gone?" he questions, voice hoarse. He's still trembling slightly.

Angela closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing. "Jesus Gabe, he's... been dead at least an hour." 

Gabriel instantly feels a wave of nausea crash over him. At least he knows why the revival attempts didn't work. Attempting to get a bearing for the timeline, he continues. "How long have I been out?"

"About 20 minutes, I believe. While you were unconscious we tried everything we could for him but- It's just been too long," she replies softly.  

He suddenly holds his hand over his mouth as another wave of sickness wracks his body. _One hour._ He feels the blood rush from his head.  _God, the whole time I was carrying him here._ He sways slightly as the ringing in his ears returns. _He was dead. Almost the whole time I was holding him. Did he even hear anything I said, during it?_ His vision becomes peppered with dark spots and the ringing in his ears becomes deafening, as the final realization hits him like a brick wall.

Jack Morrison died tonight, the last thing on his lips a declaration of love, and died without hearing it reciprocated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Again, unbeta'd, apologies for errors! I'm not entirely happy with how this came out, so I might give it a bit of a face-lift tomorrow.)
> 
> This is the last setup chapter I promise!  
> It ended up turning out a LOT longer than I realized, and I wanted to stop at this point to give the ending a little more emphasis.
> 
> But yeah next chapter actually has stuff happening and the plot moving forward! Most of it was already written actually, since it was going to be part of this chapter originally, so the next one shouldn't take too long.
> 
> I apologize for this chapter being nothing but just sappy emotions being thrown everywhere lmao, but hey, after this there will be more action and such instead of insanely out-of-character emotional powwows!


End file.
